THIS IS MY FINAL TRUE TALES TUESDAY POST – please pin the announcement that Wording Well is being born! 😀

It’s official! “LORRAINE REGULY’S LIFE” is moving and will be renamed. Yes, the internet is giving birth to WORDING WELL as we speak. Unfortunately, the labor may last a bit longer than just one day, but the new site – which has been in the back of my mind for a while – is honestly and truly being born right now!!! Read More

I got up with you to send you to school. I stroked your forehead and hair when you were sick. I knew you were not feeling well, because you let me do these things. You were never very cuddly.

I paid for heat to keep you warm. I stared at you for days, after you were born. I didn’t want to miss anything. I adored you.

I kept you safe. I kept you clean. I soothed you when you cried. I let you stay up late and watch TV.

Do you know that you mean the world to me?

I argued with you as you grew. You formed opinions of your own. I tried teaching you right from wrong, and to treat others with respect.

I hugged you and kissed you at least three times a day, every day. You couldn’t leave for school without a hug and kiss. Remember greeting each other after school, or hugging and kissing me good-night? I wanted to correct the behaviours of my parents, who were, and still are, non-demonstrative. I told you “I love you” constantly, daily, always, because I do. I love you.

I love you!

When you were two, I wrote you a song. I made it up on the spot, while brushing your teeth, to distract you. You were always so active and wiggly. Keeping still for those few minutes required drastic measures! I wrote down the lyrics, and eventually put it to music. I now sing it to your little cousins.

I supported you in most of the decisions you made. I encouraged you to be great. When you were thirteen or fourteen and wanted to come home (drunk?) after fighting with your friends one night during a sleepover way across town, I refused to pay for a cab, even though I told you I’d always be there for you, because I wanted to teach you a lesson about consequences. You learned it, too. Remember? You never let yourself get in a predicament like that again.

When you were on the high school football team, I went to your games. Even though I wrapped myself in a blanket, I still froze and felt the freezing effects of the wind whipping through my bones and at my face as I sat on the bleachers, while you worked up a sweat on the field.

I tried to be the best single mother I could be to you, my only child.

I sacrificed aspects of my life to enhance yours. I did this many times, for many years.

I loved you from the moment I felt you inside my belly, flailing your tiny arms.

When you lost your teeth, I became the Tooth Fairy. I was Santa and the Easter Bunny, too. You never knew, until I told you.

I dressed you up on Halloween, and took you out trick-or-treating, because that’s what good moms do. Do you recall our ritual of checking the candy when we got home, to make sure it was safe? I didn’t want anyone to poison you, or slip a razor or another sharp fragment into your goodies. Remember how we avoided the pedophile’s place? You may recall it as “the bad house.” I did everything in my power to protect you.

Each time we had to move from one apartment to another, I made endless preparations to ensure a seamless transition. I explained things to you, preparing you the best that I could for what was to come. I wanted you to feel secure. As an adult, you said you were.

Yet you pretended not to know me one day when we were walking downtown, shopping, until you wanted something. I understood. I was hurt, but I got that it wasn’t cool to be walking with your mom. I forgave you and admired you for exerting some of your independence. You had a fit when I joked around and pretended not to know you! You say you don’t remember that incident, but I do. Clearly. It was your first rejection of me.

At a young age, I taught you to do laundry. You were in charge of socks. You had fun matching them. As you grew, you graduated to facecloths, underwear, and towels. You were a big help, you know. I was surprised when you refused to let me launder your teenage clothes, and was impressed with the excellent care you took, and still take, with your wardrobe. I’ve never seen anyone iron like you! When you trusted me to sew the holes, I felt needed again. I loved those moments, even though I hate sewing!

Because I have eating and weight issues, and have had them all my life, I never wanted you to gain an extra ounce. Ridicule and self-loathing were not things you were going to experience! The healthy habits you formed early on in life have helped you become the strong, young man you are today.

Do you still prefer yogurt over ice cream? Apples over potato chips? Granola bars over chocolate bars? I think you do. You go to the gym enough! You do it faithfully, too, and I’m so proud. You’ve worked long and hard for your muscles, your abs, your rock-hard body, seemingly made of steel.

Remember our little, plastic, red, first-aid kit? My heart swelled when you told me you brought one to the beach and when you went camping (or was it hiking?) with those two girls. Your foresight and sensibility astonishes me.

Maybe I wasn’t perfect, but I tried hard to be the best single mom I could be. I was still a teenager when I had you. I was only twice your age once. I was 18 and in pain, physically, when you were forced into this world. I was 36 and in pain, mentally. You were 18 then. I remember, too, how crazy I was. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I know I put you through hell.

When I almost lost my leg and had to undergo major surgery to save it, our roles were reversed and you took good care of me. Did I ever tell you how grateful I was? Let me remind you, I still am.

When you were six and came home with a “D is for Daddy” father’s day card, you questioned me. After our conversation, I questioned you, asking you what you would rather have: a daddy who always yelled and hurt us or a mommy who loved you with all her heart. “I just want you, Mom,” was your response. I’ll never forget that, as long as live. I just want you, son, too. I just want you.

I love, and always will love, you. You’ll be my baby forever, even though you are a grown man now. I hope I will always recognize your face and your voice. A book I read recently about one woman’s struggles with dementia has prompted me to write and share this. It touched me in explicable ways. The book? “I Will Never Forget.”

I want you to know my feelings and thoughts while I can still communicate them. I never want you to wonder how I felt, or have unanswered questions. You are my single-most biggest achievement. I kept us both alive despite a huge lack of money to do so. I may have gambled, done drugs, and a few other things you hate me for, but I did try to be a good mother to you, and for you, as well as a friend. I’m not perfect, but I love you. Please, always remember that.

A Funny Follow-up

Funny story – I now spend most of my Tuesdays with my son. On one particular Tuesday evening, he showed me a sweater he bought. He had ripped the tag/label out, because it was causing him to itch.

I’m sure you can guess what happened… he was left with two gaping holes as a result.

The shocker, however, is what he said to me. Instead of simply asking me to sew them, he asked me, “Mom, can you teach me how to sew?”

So I did. I demonstrated how to sew and fixed one of the holes. He ended up sewing the other.

I was so proud of him! 🙂

I thought about the part I wrote in the letter to him, about sewing, and how it made me feel needed. I felt a sense of pride, though, after we were done, because I had empowered him with knowledge so that he could solve his own sewing problems in the future.

That I still felt needed was weird, and new, for me; I thought he didn’t need me anymore. As it turns out, he still needs me, but in different ways. It’s great to feel needed and wanted, especially after all of the rough patches we have been through.

The best part is that we’re now in a healthy relationship.

Finally.

And I hope it never changes… (unless it gets even better!)

My Inspiration to Write Letters to Julian Came from A Book

I want to let you know that I’m currently putting together a book of letters to my son, called Letters to Julian. I hope to release it in 2018 (OR SOONER!).

I decided to put this book together after reading I Will Never Forget.

This book had a huge impact on me.

I don’t want to be forgotten. EVER.

I also don’t want to forget, either.

I Will Never Forget

I also want to share my review of I Will Never Forget, which I’ve already posted to Goodreads and Amazon for readers to discover:

I Will Never Forget is Elaine Pereira’s beautiful yet heart-wrenching tribute to her mother. Never before have I read a memoir, and I was impressed with the light manner in which this story was written. Infused with humour, the author makes the most out of a difficult situation, making her book enjoyable to read despite the heartbreaking tale she tells. Keep a box of tissues handy – you’ll need them! I teared up many times while reading the author’s touching words, and was bawling when I read the final one. The poem written by the author, found at the end of the book, warmed my heart. It was lovely!

Through the author, the reader gets to know her family, and is able to identify with them as memories are related and glimpses into the author’s personal struggles are revealed. The style in which this book is written provides pieces of the puzzle that many sufferers of dementia face, and the reader can both commiserate with and find compassion for Elaine, the author, a feisty, spunky woman who truly did all she could for her wonderful mother while she was alive. I’m sure Betty (Elaine’s mom) looking down from heaven on her only daughter with great pride and a smile on her face. I would be, if I were her!

I highly recommend this book. I Will Never Forget will touch you in ways you cannot imagine or fathom. You will definitely not regret reading it. Besides, shedding a few (or more) tears is always good for the soul.

Your Turn:

What is troubling you? Are you trying to change things with your son… or daughter?

Snoopy was her name, and I loved her immensely. She was a tiny, grey dog; part Chihuahua, part Poodle, and part mutt. She belonged to my grandparents, who lived next door, but I always thought of her as my dog, because I was the one who took care of her, especially when my grandparents went on vacation.

Snoopy and I were best friends. We were almost the same age; in human years, she was one year older than me. I fed Snoopy, played with her, made her do tricks, took her for walks, and even changed her dirty, stinky newspapers that she used for a toilet. (I didn’t particularly enjoy doing this, but I wanted to show everyone how grown-up and responsible I could be. So I did it almost everyday, holding my breath until the acrid smell was safely contained in a garbage bag.) It was during these times that I felt special; loved, wanted and needed. The bond between us grew stronger until she loved me as much as I loved her. She was always there for me, and always would be. Or so I thought. Read More

In this post, I’ll talk about 3 things: why I love the number 13, why people fear this number, and other phobias, including blogophobia!

Why I Love The Number 13

First of all, I love the number 13. I think it’s much luckier than the number 7.

My Nana Kay was born on January 13.

My grandfather was born in 1913.

I moved back to my hometown on Friday the 13th.

This number has popped up in my life over and over throughout the years, and I have come to love it.

One of my friends was also born on January 13.

I am not really superstitious, and so I don’t have any reason to fear this number. However, I have had a weird experience on one of these famed Fridays.

When I was living with one of my exes, our fridge stopped working one Friday. Yes, it was on a Friday the 13th. I don’t know why, or what happened, exactly, but a few hours later it began working again, and worked just fine from that moment on. It was very weird, indeed.

I have also had experiences with the number 23, but those are stories for another day! (My other grandma was born on April 23rd, Shakespeare’s birth- and death-day!)

13/13/13

My Nana Kay is no longer with us, but her next birthday would be 13/13/13, if such a day were to exist. If December is the 12th month, it would stand to reason that the 13th month could be January, and so, following this reasoning, January 13, 2014 would be 13/13/13. At 13 seconds after 1:13 pm on this day, using military time, it would be 13:13:13 on 13/13/13.

Yes, I am getting carried away here, but I am looking forward to that moment!

Have you ever had strange things happen on Friday the 13th? Share your stories in the comment section, please!

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